Mr. Wurster

 What could I say? I hadn't
Thought of him that much,
But at the head of the table
He was an ornament
Or an imposing gothic gray
Winged gargoyle.

A real dark knight poet
Surrounded by panhandlers
And betrayers. Judases
And jackals, and where
Did I fit? The Jester?

A sacrament of flesh around
The table from ear to ear.
It was dusty, the room that is,
His eyes were too,
Or maybe it is only the memory,
But either way he was a beast

Among lambs, a real Lucifer,
So kind.  You know the type,
Charming, intelligent, etc. and
Sophisticated in a blazer and comic-
Book T-shirt. He was Pittsburgh classy
Poet laureate of steel bridges,
Molasses!

He was frozen art. A bloated
Tomato ready to burst,
All pink and red. He brought
Us the news of Li Po and Rumi
A man of the world!

It is almost grotesque to think
About you now.
You were so magnificent then.
You could have worn a cape
And enchanted us all,
Turned us to toads.

But instead you sung to us
Quoting, "who am I born in
Dark times to ask a
Kind turn from fate?"

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